


The Last God of Anor Londo

by FanficsbyVe



Series: The Children of Gwyn [3]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Consensual Tentacles- mention, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:31:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6975547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanficsbyVe/pseuds/FanficsbyVe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at the life of Dark Sun Gwyndolin, Gwyn's lastborn and the last true God of Anor Londo. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last God of Anor Londo

**Author's Note:**

> This drabble is a small study of Gwyndolin's character, plus some fan theories. Some of these are my attempts to make sense of the lore between the first and third, such as what Yorshka is despite the first game stating that Gwyn only had three children. 
> 
> As for the pronouns used for Gwyndolin: while he was indeed raised as a daughter and may have actual breasts, the English translation of the game refers to this character as "he" and he seems to self-indentify as male. As such, I will use those pronouns here.

From the moment he was born, Gwyndolin was not made for greatness. His fate was already laid out before he was even conceived. His father, the Great Lord Gwyn, coupled with many Goddesses to produce powerful offspring. Yet while all of these encounters were consensual, his birth was naught but a transaction and a poorly conducted one at that.

His father definitely had a young, naïve love for Fina when she bore his firstborn son Gwynnant. His dalliance with Nehma was a passionate one that naturally led to his beloved daughter Gwynevere. Yet his union with Velka was neither a matter of affection or lust. It was a matter of politics, an ill-fated attempt to cajole a harbinger of doom into alleviating the ill prophecies she foretold. After all, if there was one thing Gwyn was arrogant enough to believe it, it was that he could indeed defy fate.

Even now, Gwyndolin thinks his mother was well-aware that nothing would ever change. Sometimes, he wonders if she simply agreed anyway to spite his father. Sometimes, he even wondered if the stories whispered were true and she had indeed allowed Seath to experiment on him while he was still in his mother's womb. She was a Goddess of Sin, after all. Perhaps, the only thing she wanted to do was visit more punishment on Gwyn for his arrogance, well before the end. 

She definitely managed to do so, if only by simply birthing him. When he came into this world, shrieking and barely kicking, Gwyn had simply been horrified by his appearance. Any type of alliance he had wished to maintain with Velka was over then and there. She was banished from Anor Londo, a fate she seemed to accept all too happily, and Gwyn declared that while he wouldn’t reject his offspring, he would never consider this child a worthy heir. 

That very day he came into this world, his fate was decided. A fate to be a God but not a venerated one. To be powerful, but always in the shadow of his siblings. To be torn between an a passively indifferent father and a mother for whom he’d hold mixed feelings for a long time. 

___

 

Gwyndolin would never forget the first time the servants put a dress on him and told him to wear the ring of reversal. He didn’t protest at this. He was still too young to have any real concept of gender and his older brother, already an adult by the time he was born, had left long ago and left him without anyone to compare with. Besides, he thought the clothing was pretty and comfortable. He didn’t mind wearing them at all.

It was only as he grew a bit that he started to realize that it was unusual. His father was a staunch adherent of traditional gender roles and as such, it seemed odd that he was treated more like his sister than as a boy. He had brought this up with his servants and his mother whenever she visited him in secret, but he never got a straight answer.

Their silence only made the question nag him more. Why was he treated so differently? Why did his father show so much disdain for him when he drew upon the moon and displayed magic?

He would spend many years wondering about these things, until one night, he couldn’t sleep and wandered away from his chambers. He was a night dweller by nature and the light of the moon often drew him from his chambers to roam. He wandered through the many empty halls of his father’s keep in Anor Londo, until finally, he heard voices. 

He instantly recognized his father’s, but the other was unfamiliar to him. His voice, or at least he assumed it was male, was deep and inhuman, more of an animalistic growl than human speech. It frightened and fascinated him at the same time and he found himself drawing closer, hiding in the shadows to discern its identity. 

His eyes went wide when he was met with the sight of a dragon. Duke Seath, the traitor to his own kind, the scaleless mad creature usually holed up in his archives. He watched how his father handed him several things, items Gwyndolin recognized as ones he conjured himself with magic drawn from the moon.

He recalled how his father asked him why he even wanted those and what kind of strange creations he planned to beget from studying them. Gwyn spoke of how odd his son’s powers were and how unbefitting of a son of his. How he would never consider abandoning his own blood, but how this child had not turned out like the others, bizarre and misshapen as he was. That he had deliberately chosen to raise him as a daughter and let everyone believe he was, for he could not bear to even think of him as a son. 

Even now, Gwyndolin prided himself in how much control he had over his own emotions that night. He had left his hiding place without making a sound, sliding back through the shadows to his chambers. It was only there that he had shed tears.

Yet it was that night that he also made a promise to himself. A promise to better himself and prove himself worthy of the respect Gwyn didn’t give him now. If he could not be a good son, then he was determined to be the best daughter he could be and please his father, one way or another. 

___

 

He was on the brink of manhood when Velka came to him once more. She told him it was a special occasion and that she needed to speak to him in private. Knowing Gwyn had eyes and ears everywhere, especially in his own keep, he had quickly elected to receive her in his own chambers and cast an illusion of silence, so they could speak in peace.

Gwyndolin had known this was going to be different from all other visits when it started with an apology. For perhaps the first time, his mother apologized for how he came into the world and for his father not appreciating him enough. She claimed she had never foreseen that he would come into the world this frail and that his father would scorn him so. It seemed like a heartfelt apology, but by now, Gwyn’s lastborn was wary of trusting anyone blindly.

As such, he was equally skeptical when she claimed his birth had a purpose. That _he_ had a purpose. He was born from her, the Goddess of Sin, and as such, he shared in her duty. She was the one who provided absolution to those who showed remorse, but many were not so wise.

The guilty had to be punished, she told him. Not all crumbled under the karma of their own sins and those needed to pay in blood. That, she had determined, would be his task. 

Anor Londo would not last forever. Like all cities, it would eventually turn to dust as sure as the First Flame would fade. His father was sinful in thinking otherwise and foolish in thinking an alliance with her would avert doom. His punishment would come, but still, their union had produced him, a child of Gods. A sorcerer of the moon and illusions, that could lead sinful sheep right into the jaws of the wolf. He was valuable, his existence meaningful, and now that he was a grown man, it was time for him to attend his duties.

Despite his earlier wariness, Gwyndolin found himself rather quick to believe this. After all, what other choice had he? Especially as he grew, he refused to believe he was a mistake. He had a purpose, a destiny laid out for him. If that was to punish the guilty, to lure foolish sinners to justice and keep the reign of the Gods going, then that was a task he would happily take on.

He was a creature of the moon, peering into all that was dark. The guilty would suffer and find justice at the Blades of the Darkmoon. 

___

 

By now, Gwyndolin had become used to people being shocked when first looking upon him. He was frail compared to other Gods, twisted and malformed as well. Even if such reactions hurt, they were a fact of life and something he had hardened himself against over time. 

As such, the calm look of Delia, the scarred Darkmoon Knightess, struck him as unnatural. The woman came to Anor Londo months ago from Carim, desperate for a purpose. A scarred and maimed undead whose humanity writhed and squirmed right under the skin, she had sought to make herself useful to the Gods. 

Seeing the curse underneath her hide, it didn’t take long for Gwyn’s lastborn to find a use for her. Gifting her with an exquisite brass armor to hide the shape she was so ashamed of, he appointed her Fire Keeper of Anor Londo and made her a Blade of the Darkmoon. She had served that purpose well, but like all under his command, she too was left in the dark about who he exactly was and what he looked like.

Until now.

He expected to be alone, bathing within the privacy of his chambers. Yet here she was, having burst in with urgent news of a sinner his covenant had been trailing for month. She saw everything now, from his hideous deformities to the very fact it wasn’t a Goddess she served. It was a truth never laid bare to a mere mortal and never before had he been more at a loss for what to do.

He could kill her, of course. It was by law forbidden to look upon him and he could always claim she had offended him in some way. His father, even his mother, would gladly absolve him of sin with such a claim. Still, it seemed like an immeasurably cruel fate for one who served him so faithfully and frankly, he found himself disgusted by the idea of taking a servant’s life over something so trivial. Besides, he was curious to know just why she didn’t seem shocked at all.

As such, he maintained a friendly smile, masking his discomfort like a master of illusion would. He told her she was the first to behold him like this and wondered aloud what she thought of it and what she would tell others. Then he said back and waited, looking for the slightest sign of hesitation, the tiniest hint of an involuntary twitch of the face. Her true disposition, after all, could only remain veiled for so long.

Yet it seemed he had underestimated her or perhaps he did her compassion. No hint of abhorrence ever showed in either her face or voice. She shrugged, confidently stating that she didn’t see need to tell anyone, for he looked no worse than she did. He had to admit that he quite liked that answer. She knew that he did as well, for she walked away from that room without so much as a scratch. 

___

 

The moment his snakes slithered across her skin, she joked whether he had any plans of putting those inside of her. 

That night was the first time he had ever heard the Darkmoon Knightess sound nervous. He could not blame her. Like him, she lacked any previous lovers and he was not exactly an ordinary man. Still, he was determined to take away any doubt she might have. He wanted this to be special, both for him and for her.

Gwyndolin had never bothered with lovers in the past. Gwyn had strictly forbidden him from attempting to court any other goddesses and he had never bothered with mortals. Even they would turn up their nose for a misshapen creature, even if he was a God.

Yet Delia was different. She had accepted him, truly cared about him for no other reason than simple affection and respect. Just as her deformities were meaningless to him, his were to hers and with her, he felt safe and at ease. It had made her one of his most trusted servants and in time, their relationship had turned into something else entirely. 

That change in feelings had led them here, on his bed in the dead of night. For the first time in years, he was naked in the presence of another without feeling ashamed. He could only hope his lover would soon feel the same. 

His touches were light and careful at first, more aimed at putting her at ease than anything else. He ran his appendages across every scar and lesion, appreciating her lover’s body as the thing of beauty it was to him. He kissed her tenderly, pulling her close to him, wrapping himself all around her, fingers and scales caressing her back, breasts and eventually, that sweet area between her legs.

It didn’t take long before she relaxed in his grip, her nervous breaths replaced by pleased sighs. When he finally put himself inside her, it was painless and fulfilling and she had completely forgotten about any sense of shame. It was the first time he’d had a woman and as far as he was concerned, he’d never need to have another. They loved each other and for a lonely, misshapen God, that was all he could ever ask for. She was his Lady of the Darkling and he would not give her up to the Gods themselves. 

___

 

There was only one time in his life that Gwyndolin defied his father. 

He himself never imagined it would ever come to that. He had always been a good, obedient child, trying his hardest to distinguish himself from his siblings. Pleasing his parents was the one thing he strived to do. Yet when Yorshka was born, he had to make a stand.

In truth, he was surprised he was able to keep up the ruse for that long. Gwyn’s spies were all over Anor Londo and even with all of his illusions in place, it was mostly luck that none of them had spied a pregnant Fire Keeper. Either that or Gwyn had hoped his seed was frail enough not to produce any viable offspring. Whatever the reason, none in the city of Gods appeared aware, right up to the night his daughter came into the world.

The birth was an easy one. It took place deep within the royal palace, aided by a discreet midwife. Within less than an hour and with utmost effort on his lover’s part, Yorshka came into this world, screaming before she was even fully out of her mother. A healthy girl and the moment he took her into his arms was one he’d never forget.

He could almost cry when he saw she lacked any of the deformities of her parents. She was beautiful and healthy, alert and energetic moments after leaving the womb. The only oddity about her was her pointed ears, the small tendrils around her neck and a strange tail, but he couldn’t care less about that. She wasn’t the only offspring of Gods who had such a curious feature, after all…

This sense of bliss, the brief family happiness between him, his lover and their newborn, didn’t last long. Soon, the palace itself trembled as Gwyn came storming down the halls. Even from his sanctuary, he could hear the threats and declarations of “measures” he would take against the newborn child and then and there, he knew he could not yield to his father this time.

While Gwyndolin didn’t doubt for a moment that Gwyn wouldn’t hurt him, he feared he would direct his ire to Delia and their child. He still remembered what had happened to Priscilla, the child created through magic by Seath with use of his sister’s blood. Ever the motherly, kind soul, Gwynevere had begged for mercy for the young crossbreed and all it got her was the innocent girl trapped in a painting by that mad genius Ariamis. Yet he was not as meek and sweet as his sister and he refused to let his daughter befall a similar fate, even if he had to defy the king of Gods himself.

As such, he struck Gwyn with what he did best. He visited terrible illusions upon him, enough to drive him disoriented and mad. Of course, his father instantly caught on that he was behind these feverish visions, but the lastborn couldn’t care less. He ignored any threats or curses on his father’s end, simply letting the hellish nightmare go on for quite a while. 

It was only after hours that he alleviated the visions somewhat and stated his terms. The Lord of Sunlight was not to do anything to his lover or child. The Darkmoon Knightess and Yorshka would remain here in Anor Londo and enjoy the respect becoming of his consort and heir. He was free to raise his daughter alongside her mother. If Gwyn was not willing to acquiesce to these terms, the illusions would continue and, he assured his father, he was willing to keep that up for a long time. 

It soon became clear that the king of the Gods could fight dragons, but not illusions. Within a day, he had agreed to the terms his youngest son demanded. Yorshka was safe, but their truce didn’t come without some demands on Gwyn’s part as well. None outside of the palace were to know about this child’s existence and her true heritage. Should anyone ask, this girl was Gwyndolin, his daughter and the sister of Gwynevere. A child of the Gods, but never openly the lastborn’s child.

Gwyndolin had agreed to those rotten terms without hesitation. After all, what did he care whether Yorshka should call him “brother” or “father”? His daughter was safe and he could raise her and love her like a father should. 

Besides, if this incident had taught him anything, it was that he had more power than he had previously thought. That knowledge delighted him. Let Gwyn consider him unworthy all he wanted. He would have his moment in the sun... 

___

 

The night Gwynevere went missing was one of mixed feelings. Of course, it helped Gwyndolin’s plans tremendously. With his older brother far away and possibly dead and his romantic-minded little sister running off with the Flame God Flann, there was no one left to rule Anor Londo. No one but the lastborn Gwyn had always been ashamed of.

He could practically hear his mother’s laugh echo in his own just thinking about that. Such a marvelous jest played on the arrogance of one so mighty. Velka had been right in several ways. The First Flame was indeed dying, as she said it would, and Gwyn, unable to accept the idea his power might be fleeting, did whatever he could to prevent it.

The man cared very little for his father’s desperation. The Lord of Sunlight simply reaped what he sowed, still refusing to see his folly. He cared more about the fact that his sister was now gone. 

He and Gwynevere had always been close growing up. Even if her father favored her over him, he loved her deeply and she loved him in return. She was kind to him, patient and caring, always making sure that he had the exact same things as she did, regardless of whether their father chose to care. Her sister was one of the few people of his own family who loved him and now, she was gone.

He supposed he should not be surprised. His sister was never a very strong woman. She truly was too pure and kind for her own good and never handled adversity well. When the First Flame faded and Gwyn’s attempts to stave off the end became ever more twisted, she had suffered more than any of the Gods.

She cried when humans started to go hollow. When her father grew old and weary with worry and obsession and when Sir Artorias was lost to the Abyss. She wept tears when she found out undead were sent to die in catacombs, rounded up in asylums or fed to the bonfires to keep them alight. She even sobbed when the Witch of Izalith was turned into the Bed of Chaos when she failed to recreate the First Flame. She had enough compassion for the world to go around and in the end, staying in Anor Londo all but broke her. 

Naturally, no one would know that she was gone. Gwyn could not bear the shame and beseeched him to create an illusion of her. He only gladly obliged, both to please his father and to further his own ambitions one more step. 

Gwyndolin never blamed his sister for leaving. So had all other Gods at this point. She would do better far away from her father’s machinations and Flann would be a loving, caring husband for her. Besides, her endless compassion would not have made her a good queen to preside over the shadow politics of Lordran. She was right to go and leave everything to him. Still, that changed nothing about the fact that he felt incredibly alone.

___

 

Gwyndolin simply watched as his father entered the Kiln of the First Flame that day. He looked so much older now, so worn… To some, he realized, Gwyn might even look insane.

Perhaps, he figured, his father already was. It would make sense. The coming of the Dark, the very notion of losing his power, had changed the Lord of Sunlight. Desperation had taken hold of him and his means of staving off the coming Dark became ever more frightening.

How Gwyn had conceived the idea of sacrificing himself to the First Flame, his lastborn would never know. Even then, he had sensed it would only delay the inevitable and something deep inside told him that offering oneself to the Flame would be the end of it. His father had not wanted to hear it.

He told him he was responsible for everything now. That he should watch over Anor Londo in his absence. To erect a ceremonial coffin for him in the catacombs of the city and keep his legacy safe. His was the burden to maintain power, until the day of his splendid return, born anew and rising from the ashes once a solution had been found.

Gwyndolin would have laughed at that if it wasn’t so sad. His father truly thought there was an alternative means of keeping the Flame alive. He truly thought that one day, he would come back. His were the thoughts of a sinner and a fool, but like both of those, he had long since become deaf to reason. Especially coming from the child he favored the least.

As such, he had not protested his father’s intentions. This distant parent, whom he had spent his entire life looking up to and wanting to please. He still loved the man, just as any child was cursed by nature to love their parents. He did not wish for his death and yet, the king of Gods had condemned himself to something much worse.

All to keep alight a Flame that was destined to die anyway.

All that left him with was to honor his father’s wishes. He would rule in his stead. Hiding in the shadows, using the illusion of Gwynevere, he would maintain power. He would make it seem like the sun was still shining and use the Blades of the Darkmoon to vanquish his foes, as if the world wasn’t on the brink of being plunged into a Dark, until a more permanent solution could be found.

Anor Londo was now in his hands and he would guard it well. 

___

 

For a long time, ruling Anor Londo was a relatively easy task to Gwyndolin. Much easier than he assumed it would be. So much so that he often wondered whether Gwyn had truly overestimated his station.

His rule went unchallenged for centuries. With Frampt the serpent luring undead, Gwynevere’s illusion fooling them into feeding the Flame and the Blades of the Darkmoon eliminating those not fooled by the illusion, it was easy enough to keep the Dark at bay. From the shadows, he pulled the strings of the Age of Gods and he had to admit he savored it. 

Of course, there had been plenty of sacrifices along the way. His father’s faithful Dragonslayer Ornstein and the Executioner Smough, many knights and knightesses, countless undead… Desperate times asked for desperate means and every time, he found that no price was too high.

The Age of Fire had to be preserved. The Dark should never be allowed to overcome it. For his father, for humanity and especially, for himself and the ones he loved. 

He didn’t aim to rule Anor Londo forever. He wasn’t quite the arrogant fool his father was. He intended to abdicate the throne someday, when he felt he was no longer fit to reign and the problem of the First Flame had been solved. He would gladly give up his crown then and he’d proudly pass it on to the young girl who only knew him as a brother.

Even now, he had not yet told Yorshka about her true parentage. He somehow felt it was still not the right time for that. The girl led a calm, uncomplicated life, fully dedicated to becoming a Blade of the Darkmoon just like her mother was. She was a promising warrior and a shrewd budding politician and unlike his own father, he was proud of her and cherished her. 

One day, he’d tell her. When the time was right and he no longer had to rely on the shadows to maintain power. Then he’d tell her all about the sacrifices he’d made to keep her and that he did all that because he loved her and her mother so much. He would also give her the crown of the sun one day, tell her that all of Anor Londo was hers. 

That day, she would show herself to the world, as a proud and noble queen. She would be beloved by all, in a never ending Age of Light. And he and Delia would be beside her, to wish her a long and prosperous rule. 

___

 

Once upon a time, Gwyndolin believed Gods could only die if they were killed. After all, when one possessed a Lord’s Soul, how could poison, age or sickness ever take hold? That knowledge had always comforted him, until that very day he fell ill.

At first, he thought little of it. The onset of fatigue, perhaps, brought on by years of maintaining the illusions that kept Anor Londo thriving through every fading of the First Flame. He simply ignored it at first, determined to continue his task as secret ruler of the city. 

Yet as time went by, his sickness grew worse. His body grew thin, his skin greyish like death. Eating became hard for him, drinking even more so. His body was painful and frail and the slightest movement felt like a great exertion. 

No healer or mage, cleric or witch could heal him and with every day, he felt himself get weaker. He found it harder to look after Anor Londo each day and after collapsing one day, losing conscious sitting beside his father’s coffin, he knew he could no longer go on. He soon found himself retreating to his inner sanctum, attended only by his wife, daughter and his Blades, bedbound and afraid. 

With every day he lay there, he wondered how it had come this far. Had he truly overestimated himself? Had he gone too far in his effort to keep a tight grip on Anor Londo? Was his body failing as a result of all the magic he had expended and the plots he had conjured, all in vain as the Flame faded once more? Had he committed the same folly as his father?

That thought was nigh unbearable to him. The idea that everything he had worked for, everything he had accomplished, was all for nothing… It was almost too much to bear. He had condemned so many people to get this far. Had it all been in vain and had he potentially damned himself and his loved ones as well?

For the first time in centuries, he felt vulnerable and fragile. After an endless time of unchallenged rule, he felt back to where he started. And despite what his loved ones told him, the nightmares in his fever dreams haunted him with the truth. The Age of Dark was encroaching once more and the enemies of the Gods were already at the gates of Anor Londo…

___

 

He was coming. 

Gwyndolin’s fingers trembled at that very thought. The catacombs shook and crumbled all around him. The darkness was closing in and he knew he likely only had hours to live. 

The Deacons of the Deep had reached Anor Londo. Pontiff Sulyvahn, the monster that sacrificed a thousand children to his heathen God, was coming. He was bringing his bishops and warriors to lay waste to this city, to make room for the abomination he served.

Aldrich, the Devourer of Gods.

Once a holy cleric but now a monster thriving on cannibalism, Aldrich had set his sights on Anor Londo. After all, this was the last known location of those considered Gods and his illness had the power of his illusions fading, no longer enabling him to keep any adversaries at bay. He was now nothing more than prey for this monster and all he could do was wait for the end. 

He had thought about fleeing. About prolonging his own life. Yet he realized that in his state, he likely couldn’t get any very far. And if Aldrich caught up to him, then what would happen to his family?

That thought alone had his blood turn to ice. He would never forgive himself if his wife or daughter would die. They were the one thing in this world he still cared about, the one thing he lived for. He’d rather die than let anything happen to the last two people he loved. 

That, he then decided, was exactly what he was going to do.

Hours ago, he had told the Darkmoon Knightess to run. To take Yorshka and flee the palace through the many secret passage ways. He would stay behind, as fodder for Aldrich, and fight the false God until his final breath. 

Of course, his Lady of the Darkling had initially refused. She had wept and screamed at him, asking him how he could even think of doing this to her. All these years, she had loved him and their daughter; he had given her a purpose and happiness. She was a warrior too and she could fight; how he could he even think she would willingly leave him behind to die? 

His heart bled at her tears, but he hardened himself and insisted she should go. He confirmed, as he had done all these years, that he loved her and their child and that was exactly why he wanted them to flee. His illness was incurable and his time was running out anyway. He wanted her and Yorshka to live, to stay safe and make the most of life in his memory. She had made him happy and content and for his sake and their daughter’s, he wanted her to go on.

They had left with a tearful farewell, hurrying away through the passages to safety. Gwyndolin had watched them for a long time and it took him all of his strength to finally seal up the pathway. His stomach turned and he forced himself not to weep at the thought that he would never see them again.

He then went to the catacombs and sat on his chair next to his father’s ceremonial coffin. All he could do now was wait. He wasn’t going to run anymore. He was too sick to do so and if he was going to die, he refused to do so as a coward. 

The catacomb walls shook once more and a large monstrosity tore through the entrance. Fear emanated through Gwyndolin’s entire being as he beheld the abomination that poured into the room. Aldrich roared and snarled and inside his sludgy body, countless numbers of victims screamed. Even so, Gwyn’s lastborn smirked at him, almost condescendingly so, refusing to even scream.

Delia was safe. So was Yorshka. That was enough. As long as they would be spared, then he could die peacefully. 

___

 

Once upon a time, Gwyndolin believed death was the end. 

That thought made sense to him back then. After all, souls often lingered around death, either until fading or consumed by others. That meant the host of the soul would likely no longer be subconscious or alive. 

Now, he knew he had grossly underestimated the horrors this world was capable of. Or at the very least, what Aldrich was capable of. What he was suffering was a fate worse than death and he had to suffer it alone, in silence and in agony. 

His mind was still alive. Even now, years after his physical body died, he was still conscious. Alive inside the thick, black sludge that comprised Aldrich’s being, to be slowly consumed, inch by inch. 

His death wasn’t so bad. It was swift and painless, especially compared to the disease that had ravaged him. It was rather what came after that was unbearable. 

To have his mind alive and conscious inside this monster… To be aware while it slowly consumed his body was horrifying and with each passing day, the terror did not lessen. He could feel how the abomination used part of it as a puppet, a twisted mockery of his former self and he was certain it took satisfaction in his horror.

The being also probed his mind when it could. It would try to find out about other Gods and their descendants, their whereabouts and how weak or strong they were. No doubt, the monster was looking for his next meal and hoped the one ruling Anor Londo would have the answer.

He had already found out about Priscilla, still hiding away in the Painted World. Gwyndolin didn’t mind that the abomination managed to get that out of him. The painting could only be accessed with the proper items and even he didn’t know what those were. Aldrich soon figured that out too and the being’s rage had quite delighted him. 

He didn’t fear the thing’s rage anymore. After all, he was already dead and gone, his body being consumed. What more could it do to him? The monster could only draw out the process of eating him for so long and until that time, his mind was sealed shut. If the thing even survived this long…

The Flame was once again fading. Even inside the abomination, Gwyn’s lastborn could tell. Soon, another would have to link the fire once more and for that, the Lords of Cinder needed to return to their throne.

Gwyndolin was no fool. He had learned much about this monster, more than it ever learned about him. He knew they once used this fiend to link the fire long ago and that his might would once again be needed. The Unkindled, the undead of this age, would eventually come and one of them would defeat the arrogant heap of sludge, freeing him with it.

As such, he remained quiet and endured his fate. Aldrich would get nothing out of him. He would never learn about Yorshka or Delia and forced to live on scraps until his inevitable end. It was bittersweet, but as long as his loved ones were safe, he would gladly withstand this torture for eternity.


End file.
